Chapter 1
JOE
I watch my wife eat her cereal and think about the first girl I killed. She ate cereal in a very different manner, setting down her fork in between bites and waiting as she chewed, her jaw moving in a lazy and circular fashion as she ground the sugary flakes into mush, then swallowing and pausing a beat as if to see if it would stay down. Then she’d pick up the spoon and start the process again.
My wife shovels a new bite in while the first is mid-chew. She hunches over the bowl, her gaze pinned to my face as she listens to me talk. The Cheerios are an afterthought, her spoon passing between the bowl and her full lips without pause. Chew, slurp, brush a tendril of hair out of her face, plunge the spoon into the bowl, lick her lips, open and gulp another spoonful.
It’s a masterful coordination, made more beautiful because she is oblivious that it is happening. All of her attention is glued on me, and I know that, just as I am noticing every detail, so is she. She focuses on the press of my lips together when I pause, the raise of my brows when I ask a question, the moment I reach up and straighten the knot of my tie.
The first dead girl, she didn’t listen to me. She didn’t notice anything. She was too focused on herself, on her clothing, her goals, her music, her money, her grades. Her mind was running a race just to keep up with herself. When I killed her, she was probably thinking of the funeral and reaction more than the pain.
What would they bury her in?
Who would cry?
What would the obituary say?
They never found her body, so the burial outfit never mattered. There was also no obituary, but to her credit, there were a lot of tears shed.
If I ever kill my wife, I’ll make sure they find her body.
She deserves that.
She deserves everything.
Chapter 2
It takes almost two days for anyone to notice that Reese Bishop is dead. It's the flies that cause the discovery. On Saturday morning, they buzz against the window of the kitchen, a dozen small notification systems of fragile wings and oily legs, their mouths masticating bits of Renee's flesh as they batter against the panes. The tap of their bodies against the glass catch the attention of the mailman, who pauses in his attempt to wedge the furniture catalog into the mail container beside the front door.
Brad Thomas hitches the heavy messenger bag up on his shoulder and hesitates at the sight of the insect's movement. The recipient, Reese Bishop, didn't complete a request to hold her mail, and it was odd for her box to be full. Two odds, as his wife liked to say, don't make a right.
His gaze drops to the thick catalog which is now half-sticking out of the box. Leaving it in place, he sidesteps over to the window, cups one hand over his right eye, and leans forward to look through the dirty glass.
At first glance, it looks like the 52-year-old woman has just sat at the small round table in the kitchen and laid her head down on the red tablecloth. Her hair is pulled back with a fluffy Scrunchie and she has a piercing in her right eyebrow. At this angle, her face is turned toward him, and her eyes and mouth are open.
More flies crawl across her pale white skin and into and out of her mouth. They have already begun to eat her eyes.
Chapter 3
DINAH
I rinse out my cereal bowl and place it in the rack beside the sink. Joe’s plate is there, the fork from his eggs sticking out of the silverware cup. It gives me such a sense of domestic bliss to follow his act each morning. Both of us doing our part to keep our house in order, to respect each other’s time and space. Other couples leave their dishes out, expecting the spouse to be their maid, but Joe and I have never done that.
I’m pouring coffee into my Thermos when my phone buzzes. I check the display and answer it, holding it in the crook of my neck as I stack and tear open three Splenda packets. “Marino.”
“Dinah, this is Lieutenant Paul Franks. I was told you're covering homicide for Rosie Perez?”
“Yep. What’s going on?” I smile at Joe as he walks by. He pauses and presses a kiss to the back of my head.
“We have a possible victim in Montebello. Address is 23 Luther Drive. There’s a couple uniforms there now, medical and scene techs are on the way.”
I empty the packets into the thermos and motion to the fridge. My husband is already opening the door, withdrawing the half-gallon of milk and passing it to me. “23 Luther Drive. Got it. I’ll head that way now.”
Joe’s gaze meets mine, and I don’t have to explain what the call is about.
In our marriage, death is a common disruption of our peace. ...
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